Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8KZ6205HCD9YHF51CS2EZ

The rain drummed a lazy rhythm on the roof of Bill’s clapped-together van, the kind of van that smelled faintly of old gym socks and questionable life choices. Inside, Molly adjusted her cat-eye glasses, peering at a crudely drawn map of the party venue — Mr. Fluffington’s Super Fun Time Palace, a pink-and-yellow abomination of inflatables, balloon animals, and joy, located just off Exit 12. “So, remind me,” Molly said, tapping the map with a purple pen, “why we’re stealing presents from a group of five-year-olds?” Bill, currently trying to coax a stubborn cravat into submission around his neck, shot her a wounded look. “They’re not *just* five-year-olds, Molly. They’re *rich* five-year-olds. Look at this place — private bounce castle, live unicorn, that clown’s probably union.” “A unicorn? Really?” “Synthetic, obviously. But still! Money’s money, Molly. And besides, do you have any idea how much Lego sets go for these days? We’re talking retirement-level loot in that gift mountain.” Molly sighed, flipping to the next page of her notebook, which included sketches of potential escape routes, security vulnerabilities (one sleepy parent with a beer), and the schedule of snack times. “The party runs from two to five,” she said. “We go in during the piñata chaos. That’s prime cover. Kids shrieking, candy flying, parents trying to keep their shoes on. Nobody notices two adults in clown makeup.” “I still think we should go as inflatables,” Bill mused, wobbling slightly as he tested the cravat’s durability. “It’s less suspicious. Who questions a giant banana?” “A giant banana sneaking out with a duffel bag full of Play-Doh and tricycles? That’s not less suspicious, Bill. That’s more police report.” Bill shrugged. “Fine. Clown makeup it is. I call the sad one with the tear. Adds authenticity.” “We don’t need authenticity, we need subtlety.” “Subtlety is overrated. Look at my last heist — I walked out of a bank dressed as a potted plant and nobody even watered me. That’s professionalism.” “You also got stuck in the revolving door for forty minutes.” “That was a minor logistical hiccup!” Bill insisted, adjusting his glasses, which had clown eyes painted on the frames. Molly rubbed her temples. “Focus. We’ll pose as backup entertainment. I’ll be ‘Magical Molly,’ doing card tricks. You’ll be ‘Benny the Balloon Guy.’ We arrive early, blend in, wait for the piñata, then make our move during cleanup.” “Cleanup?” “Yes. When the parents are busy stuffing half-eaten cupcakes into Ziplocs and arguing over whose child bit whom, we’ll quietly — quietly — start folding presents into the duffel.” “And the duffel goes where?” “Inside the clown car. Which, by the way, better not be your actual van.” “It’s not! I rented a tiny one! It seats six, somehow. I tested it with Kevin from accounting.” “Kevin from accounting has three limbs and a corgi obsession. That’s not a reliable test.” Bill waved a dismissive hand. “Details. The real challenge is the exit. We can’t exactly roll a duffel full of toy kitchens past a bouncy slide full of emotionally unstable toddlers.” “We go out the back. Near the dunk tank. I bribed the temp lifeguard with expired coupons and a lukewarm Slurpee.” Bill blinked. “That’s genius. Cold beverages and false hope. You’re a monster, Molly.” “I aim to please. Now, no freestyling. No making balloon poodles for children. No crying during ‘Happy Birthday.’ We’re in and out. By four forty-five, we’re on a beach sipping coconut drinks with little umbrellas.” “And tiny hats,” Bill added. “Sure. Tiny hats. But no singing.” Bill saluted, knocking his cravat loose. “Aye-aye, Captain Grinch.”